


Anniversary

by harumiyo



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Definitely Not Based on a Dream I Had, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Irresponsible Use of PRT Resources, mild crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harumiyo/pseuds/harumiyo
Summary: The eighteenth anniversary of the formation of the original Wards team is swiftly approaching. Glenn Chambers wants to plan something extravagant to commemorate the event, but the surviving members of the team (and Armsmaster) have conflicting ideas on how to celebrate.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Anniversary

**Early 2011, Glenn Chambers’s office**

“Eighteenth anniversary? Do people even celebrate those?”

For the third time in just as many minutes, Glenn Chambers suppressed the urge to strangle the heroes sitting opposite him. “I’ve told you this before, Chevalier, but Earth Bet’s America is so depressed they’re dying for something new to celebrate—quite literally, in some places. People here will buy into anything if you package it nicely enough. And apply a liberal amount of alcohol.”

Miss Militia raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying want to turn the anniversary of a program that changes children’s lives forever into...some sort of frat party?”

_Make that four times in three minutes_ , he thought. “Not just a frat party, Hannah—something in between a frat party and the masquerade ball from _Phantom._ Classy, but with a real _edge_ to it.”

Armsmaster folded his arms. “Is there a point to this meeting, or did you make us travel all the way to New York just to discuss decade-old movies?”

“You know what, I’ll just start all over again.” Glenn ignored the groans of frustration from the three heroes in the room—Chevalier on the right, Miss Militia in the middle, Armsmaster on the left, and a bizarre rat-knife-human-hybrid abomination he didn’t remember inviting sitting on the floor by Armsmaster’s legs. The tinker periodically cast tense glances down at it. Glenn couldn’t blame him.

He decided to just ignore the bizarre rat thing, clearing his throat after a brief pause. “I called you in here today to discuss options for celebrating the eighteenth anniversary of the formation of the Wards program. As former members of the very first Wards team yourselves, I imagined you might want some input on how we set things up.”

The three of them shared uneasy glances as the rat thing on the floor continued to stare off into space. Armsmaster opened his mouth, but Glenn had been in enough meetings with him to know that whatever he was about to say would undoubtedly turn out to be a complaint about wasting his time that did nothing but lower Glenn’s mood, so he kept talking before the tinker could interrupt. “Obviously I already have some ideas about what we can do, but—you people know me, you know I’m flexible. I’m open to any of your suggestions. _Now_ you can talk, Armsmaster.”

“You do know I was never a Ward, right?”

There was complete silence in the room, broken only by the soft _splash_ of a single drop of sweat running down Glenn’s forehead and onto his desk. “...Wait, really?”

Armsmaster nodded. “I went straight to the Protectorate. Everyone thinks I was a Ward for some reason, though.”

Glenn took stock of the heroes’ reactions before he continued. Armsmaster’s jaw was set in a hard line, Miss Militia looked to be concealing a smile behind her scarf, and Chevalier just seemed confused about the whole thing. Even the rat-human had the wherewithal to look embarrassed for Glenn. “...I don’t believe you,” he eventually said, opening a new tab in his internet browser. “You just want an excuse to get out of this meeting. I’m checking the wiki.”

“Alright.” Armsmaster leaned back in his chair. “You do that.”

There was another moment of awkward silence, save for the rat thing’s knife-hands occasionally tapping against his nice new carpet. Glenn opened Armsmaster’s wiki entry, squinting against the harsh glare of the monitor. “...Huh. Guess I stand corrected. My mistake.”

“So you made me come all the way to New York by _mistake._ ” Armsmaster stood up abruptly, eliciting a startled reaction from the rat thing Glenn kept trying to not look at. “I have to go back. I have to go back _now._ Dauntless can never remember the M/S codes. He can’t even remember the passcode to his _own_ _office—_ ”

“Sit _down_ , Armsmaster,” Glenn said, and to his surprise, Armsmaster actually did. “I’d like you to stay, actually. More seemingly-living team members make for less depressing PR.”

There was a sudden shriek of anger, shrill enough to land somewhere in between ‘baby crying on a plane’ and ‘Emily Piggot drunk at karaoke’. All eyes in the room turned to the rat thing on the floor, who was currently wearing an Extremely Displeased expression.

Glenn frowned. “Okay, I’ve tried to be polite about this, but—whose rat-human hybrid thing is that?”

There came another indignant squeal, like a warthog dying of heatstroke in a locked car. The rat-thing hobbled over to Glenn and pulled out a piece of paper from god-knows-where, slamming it on Glenn’s desk with a horrifically wet slap. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at it; it was a printed screenshot of the email invitation Glenn had sent Mouse Protector, albeit a little hard to read through all the mysterious stains.

“Wait, you’re _Mouse Protector_?” Glenn set the paper down and peered at her through his glasses. “You’ve certainly...changed up your image.”

“I think she goes by Murder Rat now, actually.” Miss Militia leaned forward in her seat and tapped the ground near her feet, gesturing for Mouse to go sit by her. “The amalgamation of Mouse Protector and Ravager, her former rival. Neither of them appear to like being forgotten about.”

Murder Rat gave the other hero a grin, full of too-sharp teeth. “ _G̶̯͕̜̓u̸̗͐̓͜͝r̴͈̓̎ ̴̢̥͚b̷̺̈́̓a̵̼͘r̷̨͖̭̄̀̿ ̸̩̔n̷̡̉͘͝ä̸͚̗͈́q̶͆̍̑͜ ̸̳̥̥̂̐b̵̩̐̓a̷̳̱͍̐ẏ̶̱͕l̴͎̱̗̔͒͐_!” she chirped, her voice like a bag of nails thrown off a balcony. Glenn wasn’t sure what she was saying, or even how to transcribe it in English, but she sounded fairly happy nonetheless.

“How is Mouse Pro—sorry, _Murder Rat_ ,” Armsmaster corrected himself as Murder Rat turned to glare at him, “even here right now? I didn’t think the Slaughterhouse Nine were in the habit of letting their creations take vacations.”

Chevalier shrugged. “You must’ve just _really_ wanted to be here. Right, Murder Rat?”

“ _P̸̝͐̽b̶̘͆͛e̸͇͌͋͒e̶̺̥͐̌r̵̢͈̂͌̚p̸̢̯̙͋͌g̸͕̭̰͘͝n̴͖͈̭̾͗̋z̸͖̈́̆̚h̴͙͌͗̀a̷̬̾̇q̸̱̀b̸͇͑̈̾_!” came Murder Rat’s enthusiastic reply. She took a seat on the floor near Miss Militia, who patted her on the head gently, or perhaps cautiously.

Glenn’s eye twitched. Unable to bear looking at Murder Rat anymore, he instead turned his attention on his stress relief bonsai, opening his topmost desk drawer and pulling out a pair of Protectorate-branded miniature hedge clippers. “I don’t mean to offend, Murder Rat,” he said as he snipped away at the leaves, “but I think we might need to book you in for a day at the health spa if you manage to show up to whatever event we end up holding. You’re looking a little...washed-out.”

“ _J̵̫̺̆́̇n̸̛̗̠̠̓͝f̸̳͎͑ư̷̟͉̌̊r̷̦̞͒͘q̴̼̐͜ ̵͚̖͐b̸̨̒̍ͅh̵̡̤̥̐̅g̸̞͓͓̎̉͠?̶̙̀̈́̉!̴̺̤̉͐?̶̰͖͌ ̶͍̩̼̐̔̎J̵̡͙̣͘͠r̵̨͚̽̔͗ỵ̴̡̨̃ý̶̦̠͚̆̉,̴͍̺̼̚ ̸̹̈́͘s̶̥̉h̵͖̚p̴̺̭͆̅̾x̷̡͍̓̈́̕ ̸̛͎͖̑l̵̻̈́̒b̵͇̑ĥ̶̠̾͂ ̷̣̒ġ̸̼̰͛̉b̵̯͍̘̈́b̴̥͓͑͜,̸̢͎̓̓ ̸̥̮̭̽͊̐l̸̘͒͌̆b̷̙̅̕h̸͓͎́̀͝ ̸̺̝͐s̸̡̔̈́h̸̻͚̻̔p̴̙̿̾x̵̧̩͊̋̏v̷̹̈a̷͈͌́t̷̼̻̒ ̷̬̺̓̒p̸̘͑ñ̶̛̥͍͆ä̸̺̟r̶͉̈͒ ̶͍͇̺̏͋͗ģ̴̦̍b̸̠̘̋n̷̡͋̋q̵̹̒_!!!”

“It’s okay, Murder Rat,” said Miss Militia. “If you’re really that nervous, I’ll go with you.”

“Can I come too?” Chevalier asked. “You know how it is. Work’s been stressful.”

“Oh, _your_ work’s been stressful?” Armsmaster leaned forward in his seat so that he could give Chevalier a pointed look. “Have you forgotten where Hannah and I live?”

“People!” Glenn interrupted the argument before it could get any further. He punctuated himself with a well-timed snip of his bonsai, a large chunk of it falling onto his desk with an audible _thunk_. “I’m starting to think I made a mistake inviting you all here.”

There was nothing but silence from the heroes, and Glenn wasn’t sure what to make of that.

It was Armsmaster who broke the silence. “Just put up a YouTube video,” he said, “something about thanking the public for their support, with some old footage of the original Wards and a voice-over. Thirty seconds maximum, small-scale enough that people won’t complain about it wasting taxpayer money.”

Glenn couldn’t help his Disappointed Expression at Armsmaster’s suggestion. _Capes are the_ worst _party planners._ “Don’t you want to spring for something a little more...”

“Wasteful?”

“ _Extravagant_ is more like what I was looking for _._ ”

“I think a charity drive might be a nice idea,” Miss Militia suggested, and Glenn couldn’t be help but be thankful for the interruption, lest he and Armsmaster start arguing like a pair of five-year-olds. “We could donate the money to an organisation that helps youth in need, or create one ourselves. It would be a callback to the Wards team’s original purpose.”

“That...could work.” Glenn’s fingers were a flurry across his keyboard, barely a second passing before the ideas in his head were transferred to his text editor. A charity drive—those needed a fair amount of planning, but he’d organised a few of them before, each one more successful than the last. They’d need to secure funding for advertising, which meant reaching out to that hateful old witch Edith down the hall. Regrettable, but Glenn would find a way. They’d need airtime too, on television and radio and billboards and whatever else he could get his grubby little meathooks on. He still had contacts at—

“You didn’t write anything down for my idea,” Armsmaster said.

_Goddamnit, Colin._ “That’s because your idea wasn’t very good,” Glenn snapped, his flow of thought irreparably broken. “...Sorry. A charity drive could work, I think. Chevalier, _please_ have something constructive to add or I’m going to shred my poor abused bonsai to pieces.”

Several seconds passed before Chevalier answered him, his mouth opening and closing before he finally settled on something to say. “I’m still hung up on the eighteenth anniversary thing,” he admitted, prompting Glenn to sigh in disappointment and rest his head in his hands. “It’s such an in-between number of years. Nobody celebrates eighteen years of something.”

“Eighteenth birthdays,” Armsmaster muttered under his breath.

“Colin— _nobody_ but you thinks birthdays count as anniversaries, we’ve had this argument before—

“Then we don’t need to have it again,” Miss Militia said firmly, and Glenn could’ve kissed her. “Look, Glenn. I think we all appreciate you asking us for our input, but we may not be the people most qualified for the job. None of us are really...party planners.”

“ _J̷̭͑͋n̷͚͊̈̓v̸̪͑͘g̴̯͗͒͆_!”

All heads in the room swivelled to look at Murder Rat as she let out an indignant shriek, like a buzzsaw cutting through a horse.

Miss Militia looked as composed as anyone possibly could when faced with the threat of someone with literal knives for fingers. “Do you have an idea, Murder Rat?”

“... _Ȁ̶̧̯̼̤̪n̸͚͌͑̄͜ṵ̷̳͐̋._ ” The former hero blushed, looking down at the floor. “ _V̴̘̂̒͠ ̴̡̘̔̄w̴̙͒h̵̗̹̗͝f̵̡̍͝ġ̸̥ ̶̤́q̷̧̢̮̈̐v̸̙̉̽q̵͍͓̰͐͊a̷̡̜̥͑̏'̴̫̬̾g̴̰̥̽ ̶͈̣̂̕͝y̸̭̰͋v̶͓͔́͠x̴̭̐r̵̩̦̈́͌͝ ̶̗͍̈́g̷̠̘͘u̵̠̩̗r̷͉͇̫̐̐ ̵̦̒̚v̵̛̄͜z̴̢̩͂̆͜c̵̥̳̟͌͆̔y̷̦͌̎v̶͚̋̾p̴̖͒͌n̷̘͛͝g̴̪̮͑͠v̷̼̮̇̆͜b̸͈̻̾a̴̱̫̓̔,̵̟̙̗̐̂͆ ̷̝̹̭̓̌v̶̭̝̬͑͠f̷̝͂ ̶̹̩̈̇n̵̡̝͝y̷̺͜y̴̺͈͗_.”

After a brief pause, Glenn cleared his throat. “I think I’ve heard enough,” he began, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes as the capes in front of him visibly slouched in relief. Perhaps he needed to enrol them in a refresher course on the proper use of body language. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt waiting until the twentieth anniversary, if you people really hate fun _that_ much. All in favour of coming back here in two years’ time and hoping the world hasn’t ended, say aye?”

“Aye,” said Chevalier.

“Aye,” said Miss Militia.

“ _N̷̥̹͑̓͜͝͝l̵̲̈́̊r̵͚̩͔̦̎̊̀͊̇_!” warbled Murder Rat.

“Do I still have to come back?”

“ _Yes_ , Armsmaster.”

“Then no—no aye. Nay.”

“Too bad,” Glenn said, closing his laptop for emphasis, “because through the great and awesome power of democracy, it appears we’ve found our answer. Alright, everyone get out—I have some pictures of men in spandex to draw up.”

Glenn watched the heroes—and whatever classification Murder Rat fell under—stand up from their seats wordlessly, leaving the room in single file. He waited five seconds after he heard the click of his door closing, waited another ten seconds for good measure, then rested his forehead against his desk and screamed into the cool, forgiving wood beneath him.

Once his breakdown was mostly over, he lifted his head and ran a hand over his face. Though he tried to rid his mind of the images of Murder Rat, he found himself coming back to it every few minutes. He almost hoped the Protectorate didn’t manage to get her away from the Nine, just in case she wanted to become a hero. If that happened, he would end up in charge of her rebranding, and that would not be a task he would enjoy.

Then again, Glenn Chambers had never been one to back down from a PR nightmare.

“Minnie Mouse after a night on the town,” he mused, reaching for a pen and paper. “Conceptually and existentially challenging, but I can work with it.”

* * *

Colin was no stranger to pointless meetings, but none of them had ever left him as frustrated with his job as that one had—quite a feat by Chambers, considering it had only lasted about seven minutes.

The four of them walked down the hallway to the elevators, though Murder Rat trailed behind the three of them by a considerable margin. Colin had been trying to avoid looking at her as much as possible, but that didn’t help when just the sound of her walking across carpet painted an unpleasantly vivid picture. Chevalier and Miss Militia walked side by side just ahead of him, close enough that he wondered whether they’d gotten back together without him realising. Either that, or the stark reminder that they were the only original Wards left had brought them closer together for the morning.

“Well, that was a waste of time.” Chevalier’s jovial tone grated against Colin’s nerves. “Though I guess it’s useful to know that Glenn thought you were an original Ward all this time, and no one ever told him otherwise.”

_Not this again._ “It’s not just him,” Colin muttered. “It’s everyone. Reporters, PHO users, even _Legend_. I don’t know why it keeps happening.”

Chevalier shrugged. “Well, for what it counts—you may not have been our teammate back then on paper, but you certainly are _now,_ in spirit.”

It was a sweet gesture, but an empty one. “Given how most of that team ended up, I’m not sure I want to be.”

Chevalier opened his mouth to reply, but Miss Militia cut him off before he could say anything. “So, what happens now?”

“I don’t know,” Chevalier replied, as the three of them reached the elevators. “I remember there’s a cafeteria on this floor. Does anyone want to go get lunch or something? It feels like a waste to just go back home, considering this is the first time we’ve met up properly in months.”

“I’ll go,” Miss Militia offered. “Armsmaster, what about you?”

Colin could think of nothing more degrading than voluntarily eating PRT cafeteria food, so he shook his head. “I should get back to Brockton Bay before Dauntless burns the whole Rig down.”

She frowned. “Are you sure? That was only the one time, and the sprinkler system you set up did a good job catching most of it.”

“I’m sure.”

Chevalier and Miss Militia shared an indecipherable look—Colin _hated_ when they did that—but they seemed to accept his reasoning. “Alright,” Chevalier said. “We’ll catch up some other time, then.”

“See you back in the Bay,” Miss Militia added, and the two of them set off down the hall without another word.

Colin waited for them to turn the corner of the hallway, only pressing the button for the elevator once they were out of sight. He didn’t feel good about rejecting their offer, but at the same time, he knew it was probably for the best; he was already in a bad mood from the hassle of getting all the way out to New York, and the meeting had only made it worse. Colin couldn’t see himself doing much but pushing them away even further, even if he didn’t mean to.

There was a sudden noise from behind him, and he almost drew his halberd at the feeling of the blade of a knife pressed against the metal of his armour. He whipped around to find Murder Rat standing behind him, one absurdly sharp finger poking his neck to get his attention. “ _F̶̧̊h̷̠̋e̶̯̔c̴̃͜e̴̓͜v̵̺͝f̶̖̓r̵͎͛_!” she chirped.

Colin took a second to slow his heartbeat, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t about to get shivved through the jaw. “Don’t sneak up on people like that,” he said through gritted teeth, moving a few steps away from the former hero.

“ _C̸̘̿ḫ̷̒ḟ̵̲f̶̧͗l̵̥͝_.”

“Language.”

They stood there in silence for a few moments; Colin could feel Murder Rat’s gaze bore into him, and he resolutely kept his eyes on the elevator doors in front of him in response. Eventually she became too hard to ignore, and he spoke up before he could really stop himself. “...How _did_ you get here, by the way?”

“ _J̷̮̚b̷̹̀h̴̹͂y̴̲̅q̷̟̈a̸̞͌’̵̺͒ĝ̵̣ ̶̣̎l̷̟͐b̸̛͔h̵̳͑ ̶͙̾y̴̧̓ṿ̸̈x̸͇͝r̶̰͂ ̴͙͛g̵͙̾b̴͔͐ ̷̳͒x̷̠̅a̵͍͐b̵͇͠j̴̘̃,̴̬̕ ̶̥̈ĕ̶̳b̸̨̓ỏ̵ͅb̶̜̓ṡ̵̪h̵͙̉p̵̤̈́ẍ̴̭́r̵̖͗e̷̜̾_.”

“...Right.” Colin switched topics. “You know, you could come back to Brockton Bay if you want. We could figure out something to do with you, get you set up somewhere else. The Slaughterhouse Nine can’t make for particularly good roommates.”

“ _U̶̘̇r̸̳̂ ̸͙͗f̸̠̄ğ̴͍v̷̩͝y̶͇ŷ̸͜ ̶̮̅q̷̍͜b̶̳̀r̸̥̆f̷̣͝a̵̟̓’̴̈́ͅg̶͎͠ ̵̮͊ț̶͋r̷̜̋ģ̶̒ ̸̤͑v̵̘̏g̵̢͆_!” Murder Rat shrieked. “ _L̶̕͜b̶̒ͅh̵͐͜’̷̜̒ę̷̇r̸͔ ̷̓͜b̵̜̈a̸̖̋ÿ̶̹l̴̛̮ ̴̯͌g̵̗͊ṵ̸̔ṽ̶̡a̴̹͑x̶̮̃v̷̱̔a̴̠͌t̷̗̀ ̴̱̃n̴̖͊ȏ̷ͅḃ̸̰h̷̖͋g̷̢͑ ̷̻̌Z̵̙̈́b̵͉̃h̷̙͝f̸̟̈́r̴̰̕ ̴͖̓C̷̹̍e̶̢͋b̶̳͑g̵̰̕ŕ̴̮p̴͕̍g̶̡͘b̵͔̾e̴̙͆,̷̱͌ ̵̯̾ņ̴̊ã̶̯q̴̙̒ ̸͉͒s̵̳̿b̷̨͂e̵̬͊t̷̮͗r̷̠͌g̴̗͛g̸̻͠v̶̱̈́a̷̞͘t̵̩́ ̶͕̍n̵̼͛y̶͔̚y̶̧̎ ̷̰͝ṉ̴̂ó̵̤b̷̨̿h̸̯̕g̴̤̀ ̸̥̒c̵̞̓b̶͔̂b̸̲e̷̖͂ ̷̗̎b̷̮̆y̸̩͐q̴͔͋ ̷͙͑E̸̢̅n̴̻͝i̶̱̒n̶̻̓ṱ̸̛ŕ̴͇e̶̟͌! A̸̢̋b̵̲͋ǫ̸̈b̶̙̽q̵̳̍l̵̦̑ ̵͇r̵̝͛i̴͙̚r̵̠̕e̵̗͂ ̴̺̕s̶͔͐h̵̫́p̸̢̚x̴̻͗v̶̙̌a̵̮͠t̵̞͗ ̸̤͠g̴͙̿ǘ̷͖v̵͚̽å̴̻x̶̖͝f̴̢͋ ̷̳̈́n̷̬̋o̸̯̚b̵̨̓h̵̞͗g̵̗͆ ̸͉͝s̵̺h̸̹̿p̸̖̈́x̴̤v̸͙̕a̴̘̓t̵̩̚ ̸̪͊E̵̼̿ņ̴͊ḯ̶̞n̸̝͠t̵̩͝r̶̟͋ẹ̶̑!_ ”

“Maybe you’re right,” Colin replied. “Maybe I am only thinking about Mouse Protector, not Ravager. I apologise.”

“ _L̸̝͌b̴̛̠ẖ̵̕’̵̑͜e̴̢̓ȑ̵̫ ̸͙̉q̴̝͒n̴̗̍z̶̲̅a̷̤̽ ̷̦̕e̵̳͆v̵͍͒t̵̘ȗ̸̥g̶͍͋ ̵̭̕l̷̜̒b̷̘̈́h̷̬̏ ̶̣n̸̳̒c̵̣͝b̸͑ͅy̸̰̾b̶̹͛ť̶͕v̷̮̽f̵̥͗r̵͖͐._ _O̶̭͝v̴̤̋g̴͇̏p̸̪̄u̸͇̿_.”

The elevator opened with a quiet _ding_. “I suppose you’re going back to...whatever it is you do all day now,” said Colin, as he and Murder Rat stepped inside.

“ _P̸̝͐̽b̶̘͆͛e̸͇͌͋͒e̶̺̥͐̌r̵̢͈̂͌̚p̸̢̯̙͋͌g̸͕̭̰͘͝n̴͖͈̭̾͗̋z̸͖̈́̆̚h̴͙͌͗̀a̷̬̾̇q̸̱̀b̸͇͑̈̾_. _J̷̦̎ũ̶͚n̶͎͑g̵̠͊ ̴͙̋n̴͎͘o̵̯͠b̸̤̏h̴͈̃g̶͓̚ ̷̹͝l̷͙̈́b̴͇̓h̸̳́_?”

“Me? I’m going back to Brockton Bay.”

“ _J̶̻̆ǘ̷̱l̷̲̒ ̶̩͂q̶̧͛v̷̥q̸̼͠a̸̲͐’̶̳̀g̷̡̕ ̶̟̒l̸͙̑b̷̢̕h̵͙̄ ̷͚̉ṫ̸̞b̵̻̽ ̸̖̃j̴̲̿v̷̹̇g̴̫͒u̷͕̇ ̶̘P̸͔̂u̸͉̅r̶̟̈ï̴͈l̶͕͝ ̶̮̓n̶̞͗a̵̞͊q̴͔̉ ̵̛̞Z̶͇͐v̵̘̈f̵̜͋f̵̅͜ ̶̣̒Z̷̯̕v̴̳̓y̷̱̔v̷̦̎f̵̜̽ǘ̴̩_?”

“I could’ve gone to the cafeteria to eat with those two, but I have other things to do back home. Though...” He sighed, leaning back against the wall as the doors to the elevators closed. “I do feel hungry. I probably should’ve gone with them, but I hate being their third wheel.”

“ _Ṗ̵͈b̸̛̩z̴̬͠r̶̘͒ ̸͙͊ǵ̴͉b̸̳̀ ̶̠̎g̴̩̋ủ̸͕v̶̡̓a̶̩͌x̵̟̿ ̴͓͋b̷̤̂s̴̙̒ ̵̮͂ṿ̸̑g̴͈͠,̸̘̉ ̵͘͜V̷̩̀’̴͚̄z̶̖̿ ̶͕̽s̸͚̀r̶͙̂r̵͔̃y̵͇͒v̵͕͊a̶͎͝ẗ̷͖́ ̷̘͌x̷̞͝v̵͍̍a̷̙͐q̴̮n̸̼͝ ̶͍u̴̞͐h̴̝͠a̸̬͠t̷̺̊ë̴̬́l̶̳̅ ̶͙̅ẑ̷͎l̸͚̏f̵͉̊r̶̺̿y̵̬̓s̶̓ͅ_.”

“You’re hungry too? I didn’t realise you could still…eat things.”

“ _Ŕ̷͚n̷̓͜f̴̥͗v̷̲̏r̸̮̎e̷̛̤ ̷͚̀g̵̮̽b̶̛ͅ ̵̫̇p̶̩͒h̸̤ġ̷̺ ̸̹̄f̸̜̓g̷̙͑r̶̡͐n̶͖̎x̸̧̂,̴̹͐ ̸̥̔n̴̲̋g̵͖̈ ̴̰̓ÿ̴̼́ŕ̸̗n̵͎̕f̶͉̈́g̶̥͂.̶̟̒ ̴̹͐P̴̯̿’̸̭̿z̷̢̃b̵̛̩ă̵ͅ,̴͎̊ ̴͕̾y̷̭͛r̵̙̓g̵̬͘’̸̖͗f̷͕̆ ̶̫̕t̴̞̓b̶̫̌ ̵̝̐g̸͙̒b̸̛̺ ̴͍̓Z̸̠̅p̷̩͋Q̶̜͒v̶̦̍p̷̺͌x̸̢f̷̐͜,̵̼̓ ̶͔͂v̴̝g̵͚̔’̶͖̂y̶̥̑y̴͎ ̴̪̑ȯ̶̰r̷̡͒ ̴̻̄s̵̥̎h̷͈̚ä̸̦_.”

“McDonald’s? With you? No.”

“ _C̶̰̀e̵̹͗r̶̳̓g̴̯̓ġ̷̖ļ̶̌ ̵̧͘c̴̞̑y̵̫̔r̵̳͝n̸̘͆f̸̢̾r̴̮͐?̵̡̕ ̵͉N̵̦f̷̺̌ ̸̛̭b̵̩͌a̵̧͝r̵̡̓ ̶̝̑s̶͓̈́ṽ̷̺a̸̜͘n̷̙̈y̷̦̾ ̵̬̈b̷͍͆h̴̡̅g̶̗̋v̸̲̈́a̷͓̽t̸͚̿ ̸̝͘j̷͖̽v̶͎́ġ̴̱u̵͖͑ ̷̱̀Z̷͉̍b̴̡h̷̡͛f̴͉̓r̸̨̐ ̵̞̓C̸̹͗ė̵̥b̸̢̋g̵͈̈r̷̫̋p̶̖̊g̶̬̒b̵̙́e̸̲̍,̸̥̒ ̸̖̔o̷͍͛r̴̪͂s̸̗͝b̸̗̆e̷͇͑r̵̠͑ ̵̰̐j̸̺͆ủ̸̠n̸̗͝g̶͖͛r̸͙̚i̵͇̔r̷͇͌ĕ̷͔’̷̩͛f̴̗͑ ̵͔̌y̷̫͋r̶͖͐s̴̏ͅg̸͙̿ ̷̥͝b̷̼̄s̸̛̝ ̵̙̓u̷̿͜ř̸̺ę̴̾ ̶̙̽s̷̨͒h̷̪̊p̸̼̽x̷̻͝f̴͕͋ ̷̢̔o̶̜͝n̵̝͝p̴̲̾x̸̤̋ ̷͉̈́b̴̭͌s̴̲s̷̰͊ ̵͖͑ġ̴̱b̶̞̃ ̵̘͑Ò̶̹b̷͙̒ą̷̈r̴̮̊f̵̠̌n̶̙͂j̷̗̒’̷̲̄f̴̜̿ ̴̫̈́y̵̠̿n̸̰͠o̵̩͘ ̷̗s̸̰͂b̸̨̿e̶̢r̴̺̃i̴̩͋ṟ̷͛e̸̬̕?_ ”

Colin opened his mouth to deny her request again, but something stopped him before he could—a feeling he couldn’t identify, yet couldn’t simply shake off either.

_Ah, what the hell._

“Alright, but we’re ordering at the drive-through, and you have to pay for your own. **”**

**Author's Note:**

> And so, a beautiful friendship between Armsy and Murder Rat was born. 
> 
> To be honest, I have no idea when Mouse Protector became Murder Rat. The wiki makes it sound like it happened after Leviathan, but reading Amy’s interlude in arc eleven makes it sound more like it happened a while ago. In my defense, I don’t know if that’s the biggest mystery surrounding Murder Rat in this fic when there’s also the question of how the hell she got all the way to New York without Bonesaw noticing. Who knows, maybe Bonesaw’s gonna join them at McDonald’s. 
> 
> Incidentally, Murder Rat’s dialogue was generated with a ROT13 converter, coupled with some Zalgo text to make it spicy. If you have enough free time and the tendency to misuse it, you can decrypt it.


End file.
